


Something Enchanting and Terrifying

by PuppyWillGraham, SilentKnight



Series: To Catch a Cannibal [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types, Hannibal Lecter Tetralogy - Thomas Harris
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Creepy!Matthew, Crippled!Mason, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post Red Dragon!Will, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-17
Updated: 2014-09-24
Packaged: 2018-02-17 15:54:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2315114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PuppyWillGraham/pseuds/PuppyWillGraham, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentKnight/pseuds/SilentKnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will Graham reunites with Matthew Brown in his final attempt at catching the Chesapeake Ripper, Dr. Hannibal Lecter, along with the help of Mason Verger.</p><p>[Major m+m (Matthew/Mason) // Major & minor Brownham (Matthew/Will)]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Re-union.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is a new project SilentKnight and I are starting. First ever collaboration, and woo, actually got a beta for this thing. We're both adding content, alternating between chapters. Matthew-centric chapters will be me, and Mason-centric chapters will be Knight.
> 
> The whole thing has a basic layout and plot already, but we'll be updating with a new chapter every seven to ten days, depending on how quick the writing process is.
> 
> Beta'd by Knight and any remaining mistakes are my own.
> 
> Anyway, we both hope you enjoy!

Matthew Brown inhaled deeply as he pushed through the front doors of the stuffy and, quite frankly, _suffocating_ , building to pause on the pavement just outside. He readjusted his jacket--relieved to finally be able to wear his own clothes once more--and glanced around, clearing his throat when his gaze fell on someone familiar, yet changed. He hadn't seen this man in more than two years.  
  
Two years. That's how long Matthew had been residing in the mental hospital that his back was now facing, which was fitting, considering that was now all behind him. He had a chequered past, but he was still young. It had been over two years since Matthew's failed attempt on Dr. Hannibal Lecter's life and he still felt the faintest threads of guilt whenever he thought back to it, which was considerably less now than when he'd first checked in after getting shot by Jack Crawford, the head of the behavioural science unit for the FBI.  
  
He'd taken the rehabilitation therapy route during his time in a different mental hospital than the BSHCI--it would have been seen as highly unethical to become a patient there, where he'd previously worked and been under the order of Dr. Frederick Chilton--and he'd been moved as far away from Baltimore as was allowed, without being seen as a risk of escaping. He'd healed from the gun shot wound in a hospital recovery ward for a couple of weeks before being transferred to the Langley Porter Psychiatric Hospital.  
  
Two years of rehabilitation, with every single type of therapy under the sun endured (electroconvulsive therapy, hypnotherapy, you name it, Matthew had tried it), along with being somewhat exonerated due to Lecter's previous actions towards Will, Jack, Alana, and Abigail, and he was finally deemed fit enough to be released back into society. He'd been undoubtedly good and well behaved for two years, and would make good on his word--to reform--if he could help it.  
  
"You found me." Matthew's lips quirked up at the corners as he spoke his greeting, even if the older man was still half-turned away.  
  
"It wasn't hard, Mr. Brown." Will Graham was always so formal in his presence, always had been, even when he'd been the one to be locked up in the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane under Matthew's care. 

  
Still, he did not turn. Matthew cocked his head to the side slightly, wondering why Will wasn't turning to face him properly. "You didn't have to come all the way to San Francisco."

  
The former orderly knew of Will's gutting. It had made the guilt he carried for failing to kill Hannibal Lecter so much worse; it had resulted in nightmares, night terrors, screaming, crying, thrashing about, even an attempt on his own life at one point or another. He didn't really remember that; all he remembered was feeling fuzzy and loose, and maybe that was the sedation…all because of the near-death experience he could have so easily prevented. He hadn't yet come upon Will's facial scars-- _as if the gutting wasn't enough_ \--that were the result of a home visit from none other than Francis Dolarhyde. One stab to the face later and Will was disfigured for life. Matthew _had_ heard of the Tooth Fairy case, right before being released, but not by way of Tattle Crime or any other periodical that delved with glee into the FBI agent’s injuries. He was able to catch the barest glimpse of something before Will turned his face away.

  
"I need your help," Will wasn't the type to beat around the bush, not when it came to catching the Chesapeake Ripper. Especially not now. He needed Matthew, and despite what had progressed between them prior to the now--or lack of progression, due to Matthew's incarceration--he knew that Matthew would be on board. "Let's go grab coffee. The coffee in those places is crap."

  
Matthew's curiosity was piqued, but he remembered what had happened the last time Will had asked for his help. Or rather, what _hadn't_   happened. Before he can voice a protest, however, Will started walking back the way he'd come.

  
Matthew followed.  
  
~x~

  
They took two seats at a table near the back of a small coffee shop, with Will taking the lead and keeping the right side of his face towards the window. Once the younger man took the seat opposite, Will made no more efforts to turn away. To Matthew’s credit, he doesn’t even flinch when faced with the puckered and raise skin, signs of two hasty lacerations, which have left the once very handsome man’s face thick with scar tissue.

  
' _He looks like a damn_ _Picasso_ ,' Matthew thinks idly before speaking. "What do you need help with?"

Matthew’s unblinking gaze causes Will to narrow his eyes a fraction, before turning slightly to face out the window again. He wasn’t used to being looked at now, except when children or the very rude stared. His scars were nothing but ugly, nothing to be proud of, and he wished that the other man didn't act so damn _casual_  about them. They had defined his life since he’d acquired them, and acting like he wasn’t now grotesque unsettled him. " … I know you're curious."  
  
Matthew knew at once what Will meant, but didn’t say anything, waiting a breath or two before standing and making his way over to the front to order for the both of them. His hands were shaking slightly when he came back with two cups of coffee and once he took his seat again, his voice was low, tone serious. " How?"  
  
"Lecter." Will slipped his glasses on--it helped to divert attention from his scars, somewhat--and took the coffee cup to sip at the scorching liquid. "He sent the Red Dragon after me. Who they were calling the Tooth Fairy."  
  
"I see." Matthew took a sip of his own coffee, the name Lecter stirring old sensations of guilt. In failing to kill Lecter, Matthew had almost cost Will his life. Now it had cost him his looks, too. Would the cost keep adding up? And furthermore, why would Will trust him…?  
  
"What do you need my help for?"  
  
The ' _again_ ' hangs in the silence between them.  
  
"I need you to contact Mason Verger. You have nursing qualifications, right?" Will placed his hands around his cup.  
  
"I do. I needed them for the orderly position." Not that another orderly position would be easy to come by after his second incarceration. "Who's Mason Verger?"

He'd been locked away before Mason Verger had even come into the picture between Hannibal and Will. Matthew was also curious about why Will was asking about his nursing qualifications. What did those have to do with their current discussion?

"He's the son of the meat **-** packing mogul, Molson Verger. The heir to the Verger fortune, in other words. We need him on our side to catch Lecter.” He'd since dropped the use of that _monster's_ official title. He was no doctor in Graham's eyes. " **…** Mason has plenty of reason to loathe him, just as I do. I believe you can help bring us all together."

  
"And if I don't?" Matthew's mind was already made up, though. He wanted to help. Anything to finally get rid of that bastard, once and for all.

  
"Then you're of no use to me at all." Will stood and stalked out the door, coffee abandoned on the table only half gone. He wasn't here to play games. He certainly wasn't getting any younger, either.

  
"Will! I'll help." Matthew had followed him, almost without thought. He always followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crit and kudos, along with comments, are all very much appreciated.


	2. Sibling Rivalry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margot Verger has helped Matthew Brown get a position at Muskrat Farm. Her influence over the home and business since Mason's "accident"have greatly increased, and Mason's desire for revenge is playing second fiddle to a Verger power struggle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first contribution to the fic.
> 
> Beta'd by Puppy and any remaining mistakes are my own.

“You’re up to something.”

 

 

The usual soft pop of the p is lost in Mason’s speech. He has, however, learned to mimic the sound of an m by keeping his tongue close to his front teeth, so long as it doesn’t begin a word. His speech has greatly improved since his accident, but it has been a long time since Margot had any trouble understanding him.  
  


  
She drew the curtain flush against the wall, an unnecessary action that allowed her to make Mason wait before she turned back to him. An uneasy truce had formed out of necessity between them since Mason’s ‘accident’. Margot now had the upper hand that physical health had always afforded Mason, and while he could cut her off financially if she went too far, they both knew she would make it the last thing he ever did the second her legacy was gone. It was not quite peace, but it was the Verger approximation.

 

 

“I fired your nurse because he was stealing. They  _all_ steal from you, Mason. That’s what happens when you hire someone merely because you can provide the best salary. They always want more.” She approached the bed where her twin lay, stopping a foot short and looking down. The scorn she felt for him had not eased with time, but there was plenty of satisfaction in seeing the monster who had tormented her brought so low. “Don’t worry—I’m not volunteering for the job. But I made my promise to take care of you, and I will…the replacement will be here around lunchtime, and you two can get acquainted over today’s soup.”

 

 

Mason cannot turn his head very much to look, so he spoke while staring straight ahead, as if speaking to the air. “And what’s your solution to the problem? Have you hired a man without hands?”  
  


 

The t’s and the d’s are ghosts of their intended sound, the m nonexistent.

 

 

“Clever, Mason, but no. Matthew Brown is perfectly whole and qualified. But I assure you, he’ll be too dependent on this job for petty theft. He isn’t going to find employment elsewhere--he’s insane.”  
  


  
It was impossible for Mason to distinguish whether he imagined the amusement in her voice because she was moving towards the door now, pausing in the doorway. He hadn’t had any of the staff bring the hospital bed into its upright position, so the only thing he could see was the curtain draped over his four-poster bed, and slices of the ceiling visible to the left and right of that.

 

 

“I thought it would be nice for you two to have that in common.” Something she would never have dared say before she took back control of her life, and certainly not after the bitter setback that had left her scarred and sterile. It had taken her twin’s utter helplessness to reawaken her inner strength, and with it had come a measure of cruelty. Of course, there could have been no more deserving recipient than Mason Verger.

 

 

~x~

 

Mason met Matthew after the last box of his new private physician’s belongings had been moved into the guest bedroom. There hadn’t been much, and even working alone it had taken the man only two trips. Mason had heard his new houseguest decline Margot’s offer for help while two members of the maintenance staff tried their hand at transferring Mason from the bed to a wheelchair.

 

 

The process was more unpleasant than usual. Even with two men doing the work usually accomplished by one, they didn’t seem able to stabilize four limbs of dead weight and Mason’s head between them. They were getting in each other’s way, most likely, but there was nothing Mason could do but grit his teeth and wait for them to manage. It wasn’t as though it hurt—he couldn’t feel much below his collar bone, and what sensation there was was isolated and dulled—but it involved a great deal of indignity.

 

 

_Living_  was its own sort of indignity now, even though plenty of people living with spinal cord injuries lacked the comfort and advanced treatment Mason’s money provided. A dozen fortunes couldn’t help the fact that he needed someone to bathe him, to maneuver him in and out of bed as if he were a rag doll, to feed him food cut into tiny bites or worse, puréed.

 

 

From the eyes up he possessed a normal, even handsome face. Downwards, it was a different story. The doctors had been able to retrieve his nose when they pumped his stomach, but the flesh had been too damaged for the graft to take. Repeated attempts at cosmetic reconstruction had managed only a slight protrusion containing his nostrils that bore little resemblance to a nose. Medicine had given him back skin, but not a face. The grafts appeared stretched too tight, like shrink-wrap on bone, with nothing much between them. He had taken to wearing a plastic face-plate when receiving guests or in the rare video conference with his board of directors. For those occasions he usually had his physician dress him in a suit. With the old physician fired he lacked that option—those idiots from the maintenance staff weren’t getting near him again—but it was really a moot point. This was the man who was going to feed, clothe, and bathe Mason for the foreseeable future. Whether he was in a seven hundred dollar Armani suit or the striped bathrobe and pajamas he was wearing, he always felt utterly naked in front of these men who held so much sway over his life.  
  


  
The face-plate he wore only because Margot strapped it on before wheeling him out to the kitchen, almost as an afterthought. Matthew was waiting at the kitchen table and rose when they entered, though smart enough not to make the faux pas of extending his hand.

 

 

“Mr. Verger, I’m Matthew Brown—it’s a pleasure to be working here.” He spoke first after the long silence in which Mason was appraising him. The lisp was noted along with his physical appearance, filed away with the rest. Height was so hard to gauge from a wheelchair, but Matthew looked shorter than him, if not by much. What really bothered Mason was the almost delicate features this man had. How fit he was was not quite clear beneath his clothes, but it disturbed Mason that someone so lean could expect to move him from bed to chair, chair to bath, and back again. A few years ago his weight might have presented a considerable problem, but his body had started to grow small beneath the covers from being still so long, arms and legs growing thin as a gut that threatened to need extremely well tailored suits to conceal in the future grew flat, and then hollowed. This pretty boy with slender limbs and features, who might at one time have represented a very different interest for Mason, would find him no trouble.

 

 

“Mason.”  
  


 

  
How hard he had struggled to form that m, to form a weak approximation of his own name. There were ways to avoid it, ways to speak around words or phrases that were difficult to say, but being crippled had stolen so much from a man who had once had everything. Mason wouldn’t allow it to steal his very name. “You can use my first name…it’s easier on both of us. We’re going to get to know each other very well.”

 

 

Matthew inclined his head. Polite, professional. It would be easier if Mason could learn to think of him as a member of the staff now, as much a part of the house as any of the furniture, but there was the matter of Margot to consider. She lingered in the room with her brother and Matthew long after she had showed an interest in most similar matters. The way her eyes jumped back and forth between the two of them was unnerving Mason. She could have stood behind him, if she hadn’t wanted him to see, but she seemed almost unaware of what she was doing. There was  _definitely_ something going on, and Mason would be a fool to trust her or Matthew until he understood what.

 

 

Eventually she caught Mason staring—there was a tense moment where neither looked away. Finally she made a noise halfway between a growl and a sigh. “My brother hasn’t eaten lunch yet—he takes breakfast in bed but prefers later meals in here or in the dining room. The kitchen is that way.” She pointed, leaving no time between that and her exit for Matthew to ask questions.  
  


  
Being left alone with the less attractive Verger would intimidate most new staff—it had caused at least one woman to quit. Matthew showed no sign of being so flighty. He approached Mason, not leaning down patronizingly but making sure to more into his employer’s line of vision. “I haven’t been asked to cook, or even if I can—I’m assuming you employ a cook?” “

 

 

“We’re running a little behind schedule, but the kitchen should be keeping three plates warm—two, if Margot has already eaten. Eat after I do, or bring your plate too—doesn’t matter to me.” He was as interested in how Matthew would choose to act as he was whether the new physician would even understand him. Fumbled requests for Mason to repeat what he’d said were common, and a considerable black mark on any staff member’s record once it was repeated too often.  
  


  
Matthew made no such request. He left in the direction that Margot had indicated, returning after a generous interval with a plate in each hand. “Utensils…?”

 

 

That was a point in his favor. “Top drawer closest to the fridge on the left side.” Where once Mason would have preferred a clear line of servitude, he now worked to blend as much in with everyday life at Muskrat Farm. Even if he was the master and they were his servants, they were also able-bodied while he was the cripple. The food, his struggle for increased mobility, everything was geared towards narrowing the gap between him and them. There were few sandwiches around the Farm anymore. Everything on the plate was small or easy to cut into pieces without being too conspicuous or patronizing, and both plates were the same. Matthew slid one in front of his new employer before setting two forks and knives aside to reach for the buckles securing Mason’s face-plate.  
  
  
There was no reaction. None.  
  
  
Only when Matthew set the face-plate aside on the table and dropped his gaze to the plate did Mason realize how utterly anticlimactic that had been. A few of the men who had cared from him had seen much worse and retained a doctor’s detached attitude, but most at least flinched. Matthew’s lack of expression as he held a piece of pasta speared on the end of a fork up to Mason’s restructured mouth spoke of either of being desensitized, or a cold calculation Mason had seen once before, in Doctor Hannibal Lecter.  
  


  
Even as Matthew tucked into his own portion and introduced almost gently the topic of the weather in California versus Maryland, Mason couldn’t shake the unease that drawing that parallel had brought him. He also couldn’t admit to himself until _after_  a bath that night that he had been expecting something sudden and violent—specifically, for the new physician to attempt to drown him. But such fears were proven foolish, as were any concerns Mason had that Matthew couldn't handle him.  
  
  
If there  _was_  a mystery, it was something deeper.  
  
  
~x~

 

 

 It took about two weeks before Matthew gave Mason a reason to trust him. He hadn’t given Mason any reason  _not_  to trust him, except for the fact that Margot had hired him seemingly with a purpose; the addition Matthew made to the mail he presented Mason after his breakfast, a copy of The National Tattler with a front cover story on Hannibal the Cannibal Lecter, had gone unnoticed. It had filled Mason with an uncharacteristic rage that he had no outlet for and left him in a murderous mood for two days, but he assumed Margot responsible and didn’t question his physician.

 

 

As easily as that, he had begun to trust a near stranger more than his own flesh and blood. It was a natural thing, yet fragile and in danger of breaking at any time, until the day Mason finally confronted Margot about the Tattler.  
  


  
It started with another matter entirely.

 

 

“Margot!” Typically, Mason used a device that vaguely resembled panpipes to summon assistance. It was large and unwieldy when mounted close enough for Mason to use it, so at times it was removed and a remote with simple controls for the elmo and a call button was tucked into his hand. He had retained slight feeling and limited movement in his right hand, but today the gadget had slipped from his grasp. Even if his pinky brushed it, he lacked the dexterity to reclaim it. Shouting remained the only option, and even that put a damper on his anger when it left him winded. “ _Margot!_ ”

 

 

Her concern was evident when she entered the room, quickly morphing to irritation when she saw that there was no immediate danger. “For God’s sake, Mason—what the hell do you want?”

 

 

“What do I want?” Someone else had heard his outburst and come running. Matthew Brown lurked in the doorway. Mason, for the most part, ignored his presence.

 

 

“What do I want...what do I want...what do I  _want?_ I want to know why you’ve been taking things out of my mail. Medical information—”

 

 

“I put that back, after our last discussion. But you know your current doctors are doing all they can.”

 

 

“—business—”

 

 

“You’re not  _well_  enough to be making these decisions, Mason.”

 

 

“I’m well enough!”

 

 

“Not to walk the slaughter houses and do anything eyes or hands on. Not anymore. Let go of your pride, shut  _up_ , and let me keep our family from—Mr. Brown, I think you should leave.” While she’d spoken the other man had crossed the room and approached Mason’s bed. “This is family business.” She had been flushed with anger; now embarrassment played a role as well. It still took a lot of courage for her to stand up to her brother.

 

 

“It’s a matter of health, Miss Verger.” He gestured vaguely at Mason’s likewise reddened face while taking his employer’s pulse. “He can’t have this sort of upset on the same day as a physical therapy session. You should settle this when you’re both more calm, regardless.”

 

 

The rebuke was gentle, but Mason could see that to Margot it was like a slap across the face. She recoiled slightly, lips a tight line. Then, if Mason had felt he needed any more conformation that there was more behind Matthew’s hiring than random chance, she spoke to him with a level of venom she never let outsiders see. “My brother has harmed plenty of people, willingly and gleefully.”

 

 

“Perhaps.” Mason wished he could see Matthew’s face, but the man was bent over his wrist, face turned towards Margot. “But he will come to no undue harm under my care. Please, Miss Verger… _leave the room._ ”

 

 

And Margot left. Mason wasn’t present at their next interaction, and by the time he did see the two of them in the same room they seemed to have both moved past the minor power struggle, but there was a coldness there from Margot now. Whatever Matthew Brown was to Margot, he certainly wasn’t her ally.  
  
  
…but perhaps he could be Mason’s.

 

 

“What’s that business with your mail?” Matthew asked, making no efforts to fake nonchalance when he fed Mason his dinner that night. “Is it something you need me to take care of?”

 

 

Mason went about the process of chewing each bite a little more carefully before swallowing. “She’s right. About the business…but parts of it. I’m perfectly capable of keeping an eye on my own money, but she has plenty of reasons to not want me to. It’s a power play.” Too many p’s in that, but Matthew didn’t speak. He listened, silent, until it was became clear that Mason wasn’t going to continue.

 

 

“And the other part of it?”  
  
  
He decided, in that instant, to trust Matthew. “I believe she’s intercepting material about Hannibal Lecter. I was tracking down a lead that went suddenly silent.”

 

 

Something had grown bright in Matthew’s eyes, but Mason couldn’t guess what. “Yes?”

 

 

“Brazil, involving an x-ray. But even if it were real, the information was old. Lecter will be somewhere far away by now. Europe, Asia…I need access to something solid, something that Lecter himself touched. I’d have sent someone to that cocksucker psychiatrist’s office long ago if I thought it would do any good…but my hitman is dead and what papers the shrink didn’t get Lecter burned.”

 

 

“Doctor Chilton?” Before Mason had a chance to reply, Matthew continued: “At the hospital in Baltimore? I used to work there…and I know how to get in.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! comments, kudos and bookmarks are welcomed.


End file.
